THE POEMS OF HENRY KENDALL

by Henry Kendall

[Native-born Australian Poet—1841-1882.]



[Note on text: Lines longer than 78 characters have been broken according to metre, and the continuation is indented two spaces. A few obvious errors have been corrected.]



This edition of Kendall contains: (i) The poems included in the three volumes published during the author's lifetime; (ii) Those not reprinted by Kendall, but included in the collected editions of 1886, 1890 and 1903; (iii) Early pieces not hitherto reprinted; (iv) Poems, now first printed, from the Kendall MSS. in the Mitchell Library, the use of which has been kindly permitted by the Trustees. Certain topical skits and other pieces of no value have been omitted.

With biographical note by Bertram Stevens



Contents



Poems and Songs

The Muse of Australia Mountains Kiama Etheline Aileen Kooroora Fainting by the Way Song of the Cattle-Hunters Footfalls God Help Our Men at Sea Sitting by the Fire Bellambi's Maid The Curlew Song The Ballad of Tanna The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door Urara Evening Hymn Stanzas The Wail in the Native Oak Harps We Love Waiting and Wishing The Wild Kangaroo Clari Wollongong Ella with the Shining Hair The Barcoo Bells Beyond the Forest Ulmarra The Maid of Gerringong Watching The Opossum-Hunters In the Depths of a Forest To Charles Harpur The River and the Hill The Fate of the Explorers Lurline Under the Figtree Drowned at Sea Morning in the Bush The Girl I Left Behind Me Amongst the Roses Sunset Doubting Geraldine Achan

Leaves from Australian Forests

Dedication Prefatory Sonnets The Hut by the Black Swamp September in Australia Ghost Glen Daphne The Warrigal Euroclydon Araluen At Euroma Illa Creek Moss on a Wall Campaspe On a Cattle Track To Damascus Bell-Birds A Death in the Bush A Spanish Love Song The Last of His Tribe Arakoon The Voyage of Telegonus Sitting by the Fire Cleone Charles Harpur Coogee Ogyges By the Sea King Saul at Gilboa In the Valley Twelve Sonnets— A Mountain Spring Laura By a River Attila A Reward To—— The Stanza of Childe Harold A Living Poet Dante and Virgil Rest After Parting Alfred Tennyson Sutherland's Grave Syrinx On the Paroo Faith in God Mountain Moss The Glen of Arrawatta Euterpe Ellen Ray At Dusk Safi Daniel Henry Deniehy Merope After the Hunt Rose Lorraine

Songs from the Mountains

To a Mountain Mary Rivers Kingsborough Beyond Kerguelen Black Lizzie Hy-Brasil Jim the Splitter Mooni Pytheas Bill the Bullock-Driver Cooranbean When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass The Voice in the Wild Oak Billy Vickers Persia Lilith Bob Peter the Piccaninny Narrara Creek In Memory of John Fairfax Araluen The Sydney International Exhibition Christmas Creek Orara The Curse of Mother Flood On a Spanish Cathedral Rover The Melbourne International Exhibition By the Cliffs of the Sea Galatea Black Kate A Hyde Park Larrikin Names Upon a Stone Leichhardt After Many Years

Early Poems, 1859-70

The Merchant Ship Oh, Tell Me, Ye Breezes The Far Future Silent Tears Extempore Lines The Old Year Tanna The Earth Laments for Day The Late W. V. Wild, Esq. Astarte Australian War Song The Ivy on the Wall The Australian Emigrant To My Brother, Basil E. Kendall The Waterfall The Song of Arda The Helmsman To Miss Annie Hopkins Foreshadowings Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook To Henry Halloran Lost in the Flood Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four To —— At Long Bay For Ever Sonnets The Bereaved One Dungog Deniehy's Lament Deniehy's Dream Cui Bono? In Hyde Park Australia Vindex Ned the Larrikin In Memoriam—Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse Rizpah Kiama Revisited Passing Away James Lionel Michael Elijah Manasseh Caroline Chisholm Mount Erebus Our Jack Camped by the Creek Euterpe Sedan

Other Poems, 1871-82

Adam Lindsay Gordon In Memory of Edward Butler How the Melbourne Cup was Won Blue Mountain Pioneers Robert Parkes At Her Window William Bede Dalley To the Spirit of Music John Dunmore Lang On a Baby Buried by the Hawkesbury Song of the Shingle-Splitters On a Street Heath from the Highlands The Austral Months Aboriginal Death-Song Sydney Harbour A Birthday Trifle Frank Denz Sydney Exhibition Cantata Hymn of Praise Basil Moss Hunted Down Wamberal In Memoriam—Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse From the Forests John Bede Polding Outre Mer



Biographical Note



Henry Kendall was the first Australian poet to draw his inspiration from the life, scenery and traditions of the country. In the beginnings of Australian poetry the names of two other men stand with his—Adam Lindsay Gordon, of English parentage and education, and Charles Harpur, born in Australia a generation earlier than Kendall. Harpur's work, though lacking vitality, shows fitful gleams of poetic fire suggestive of greater achievement had the circumstances of his life been more favourable. Kendall, whose lot was scarcely more fortunate, is a true singer; his songs remain, and are likely long to remain, attractive to poetry lovers.

The poet's grandfather, Thomas Kendall, a Lincolnshire schoolmaster, met the Revd. Samuel Marsden when the latter was in England seeking assistants for his projected missionary work in New Zealand. Kendall offered his services to the Church Missionary Society of London and came out to Sydney in 1809. Five years later he was sent to the Bay of Islands as a lay missionary, holding also the first magistrate's commission issued for New Zealand. He soon made friends with the Maoris and learnt their language well enough to compile a primer in pidgin-Maori, 'A Korao no New Zealand; or, the New Zealander's First Book', which George Howe printed for Marsden at Sydney in 1815. In 1820 Thomas Kendall went to England with some Maori chiefs, and while there helped Professor Lee, of Cambridge, to "fix" the Maori language—the outcome of their work being Lee and Kendall's 'Grammar and Vocabulary of the Language of New Zealand', published in the same year.

Returning to New Zealand, Kendall, in 1823, left the Missionary Society and went with his son Basil to Chile. In 1826 he came back to Australia, and for his good work as a missionary received from the New South Wales Government a grant of 1280 acres at Ulladulla, on the South Coast. There he entered the timber trade and became owner and master of a small vessel used in the business. About 1832 this vessel was wrecked near Sydney, and all on board, including the owner, were drowned.

Of Basil Kendall's early career little is known. While in South America he saw service under Lord Cochrane, the famous tenth Earl of Dundonald, who, after five brilliant years in the Chilean service, was, between 1823 and 1825, fighting on behalf of Brazil. Basil returned to Australia, but disappears from view until 1840. One day in that year he met a Miss Melinda McNally, and next day they were married. Soon afterwards they settled on the Ulladulla grant, farming land at Kirmington, two miles from the little town of Milton. There, in a primitive cottage Basil had built, twin sons—Basil Edward and Henry—were born on the 18th April, 1841. Five years later the family moved to the Clarence River district and settled near the Orara. Basil Kendall had practically lost one lung before his marriage, and failing health made it exceedingly difficult for him to support his family, to which by this time three daughters had been added. On the Orara he grew steadily weaker, and died somewhere about 1851.

Basil Kendall was well educated, and had done what he could to educate his children. After his death the family was scattered, and the two boys were sent to a relative on the South Coast. The scenery of this district made a profound impression upon Henry, and is often referred to in his early poems. In 1855 his uncle Joseph took him as cabin boy in his brig, the 'Plumstead', for a two years' cruise in the Pacific, during which they touched at many of the Islands and voyaged as far north as Yokohama. The beauty of the scenes he visited lived in the boy's memory, but the rigours of ship life were so severe that in after years he looked back on the voyage with horror.

Henry Kendall returned to Sydney in March, 1857, and at once obtained employment in the city and set about making a home for his mother and sisters. Mrs. Kendall, granddaughter of Leonard McNally, a Dublin notable of his day, was a clever, handsome woman with a strong constitution and a volatile temperament. Henry was always devoted to her, and considered that from her he inherited whatever talent he possessed. She helped in his education, and encouraged him to write verse.

The first verses of his known to have been printed were "O tell me, ye breezes"—signed "H. Kendall"—which appeared in 'The Australian Home Companion and Band of Hope Journal' in 1859. A number of other poems by Kendall appeared in the same magazine during 1860 and 1861. But in a letter written years afterwards to Mr. Sheridan Moore, Kendall says "My first essay in writing was sent to 'The Southern Cross' at the time you were sub-editor. You, of course, lit your pipe with it. It was on the subject of the 'Dunbar'. After a few more attempts in prose and verse—attempts only remarkable for their being clever imitations—I hit upon the right vein and wrote the Curlew Song. Then followed the crude, but sometimes happy verses which made up my first volume."

The verses on the wreck of the 'Dunbar', written at the age of sixteen, were eventually printed in 'The Empire' in 1860 as "The Merchant Ship". Henry Parkes, the editor of that newspaper, had already welcomed some of the boy's poems, and in 'The Empire' of the 8th December, 1859, had noticed as just published a song—"Silent Tears"—the words of which were written by "a young native poet, Mr. H. Kendall, N.A.P." These initials, which puzzled Parkes, as well they might, meant no more than Native Australian Poet.

Kendall also sent some poems to 'The Sydney Morning Herald'; there they attracted the attention of Henry Halloran, a civil servant and a voluminous amateur writer, who sought out the poet and tried to help him.

Kendall's mother brought him to Mr. Sheridan Moore, who had some reputation as a literary critic. He was greatly interested in the poems, and promised to try to raise money for their publication. Subscriptions were invited by advertisement in January, 1861, but came in so slowly that, after a year's delay, Kendall almost despaired of publication.

Meanwhile Moore had introduced Kendall to James Lionel Michael, through whom he came to know Nicol D. Stenhouse, Dr. Woolley, and others of the small group of literary men in Sydney. Michael, a London solicitor, had been a friend of some of the Pre-Raphaelite group of artists, and was much more interested in literature than in the law when the lure of gold brought him to Australia in 1853. Himself a well-read man and a writer of very fair verse, he recognized the decided promise of Kendall's work and gave him a place in his office. In spite of their disparity in years they became friends, and Kendall undoubtedly derived great benefit from Michael's influence and from the use of his library. When in 1861 Michael left Sydney for Grafton, Kendall either accompanied him or joined him soon afterwards. He did not, however, stay long at Grafton. He found employment at Dungog on the Williams River; afterwards went to Scone, where he worked for a month or two, and then made his way back to Sydney.

Restive over the long delay in publication, and anxious to get a critical estimate of his work, Kendall in January, 1862, made copies of some pieces and sent them to the 'Cornhill Magazine' with a letter pleading for special consideration on account of the author's youth and the indifference of Australians to anything produced in their own country. A reduced facsimile of this interesting letter is printed here. {In this etext, the letter has been transcribed and is included at the end of this section.} Thackeray was editor of 'Cornhill' up to April, 1862, but may not have seen this pathetic appeal from the other side of the world. At any rate, no notice of it was taken by 'Cornhill', and in July of the same year Kendall sent a similar letter with copies of his verses to the 'Athenaeum'. The editor printed the letter and some of the poems, with very kindly comments, in the issue of 27th September, 1862.

In October, 1862, before this powerful encouragement reached the young writer, 'Poems and Songs' was published in Sydney by Mr. J. R. Clarke. 'The Empire' published a favourable review. Further notice of his work appeared in the 'Athenaeum' during the next four years, and in 1866 it was generously praised by Mr. G. B. Barton in his 'Poets and Prose Writers of New South Wales'.

Meanwhile in August, 1863, Kendall was, through Parkes' influence, appointed to a clerkship in the Surveyor-General's Department at one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and three years later was transferred to the Colonial Secretary's Office at two hundred pounds a year. During this period he read extensively, and wrote much verse. By 1867 he had so far overcome his natural shyness that he undertook to deliver a series of lectures at the Sydney School of Arts. One of these, on "Love, Courtship and Marriage", precipitated him into experience of all three; for he walked home after the lecture with Miss Charlotte Rutter, daughter of a Government medical officer, straightway fell in love, and, after a brief courtship, they were married in the following year.

The year 1868 was a memorable one for Kendall in other ways. In April, James Lionel Michael was found dead in the Clarence River, and in June Charles Harpur died at Euroma. Kendall had a great admiration for Harpur's poems and wrote to him in the spirit of a disciple. They corresponded for some years, but did not meet until a few months before the elder poet's death. Kendall describes Harpur as then "a noble ruin—scorched and wasted by the fire of sorrow."

In 1868, also, a prize was offered in Melbourne for the best Australian poem, the judge being Richard Hengist Horne, author of 'Orion'. Kendall sent in three poems and Horne awarded the prize to "A Death in the Bush". In an article printed in Melbourne and Sydney newspapers he declared that the author was a true poet, and that had there been three prizes, the second and third would have gone to Kendall's other poems—"The Glen of Arrawatta" and "Dungog".

The result of winning this prize was that Kendall decided to abandon routine work and try to earn his living as a writer. He resigned his position in the Colonial Secretary's Office on the 31st March, 1869, and shortly afterwards left for Melbourne, where his wife and daughter soon joined him. Melbourne was then a centre of greater literary activity than Sydney. Neither then, however, nor for a long time to come, was any number of people in Australia sufficiently interested in local literature (apart from journalism) to warrant the most gifted writer in depending upon his pen for support. Still, Kendall managed to persuade Mr. George Robertson, the principal Australian bookseller of those days, to undertake the risk of his second book of poems—'Leaves from Australian Forests'—which was published towards the end of 1869. But though the volume showed a great advance in quality upon its predecessor, it was a commercial failure, and the publisher lost ninety pounds over it.

In Melbourne, Kendall wrote prose, as well as satirical and serious verse, for most of the papers. The payment was small; in fact, only a few newspapers then paid anything for verse. He made a little money by writing the words for a cantata, "Euterpe", sung at the opening of the Melbourne Town Hall in 1870. At the office of 'The Colonial Monthly', edited by Marcus Clarke, he met the best of the Melbourne literati, and, though his reserved manner did not encourage intimacy, one of them—George Gordon McCrae—became a close and true friend. Lindsay Gordon, too, admired Kendall's poems, and learned to respect a man whose disposition was in some ways like his own. 'Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes' appeared in June, 1870, and Kendall received an advance copy and wrote a laudatory review for 'The Australasian'. He and Gordon spent some hours on the day of publication, discussing the book and poetry in general. Both were depressed by the apparent futility of literary effort in Australia, where nearly everyone was making haste to be rich. Next morning Gordon shot himself—tired of life at thirty-seven! Kendall knew how Harpur's last long illness had been saddened by the knowledge that the public was utterly indifferent to his poems; he had seen the wreck of the once brilliant Deniehy; and now the noble-hearted Gordon had given up the struggle.

To these depressing influences, and the hardships occasioned by a meagre and uncertain income, was added a new grief—the loss of his first-born, Araluen, whose memory he enshrined years afterwards in a poem of pathetic tenderness. He returned to Sydney early in 1871, broken in health and spirit. The next two years were a time of tribulation, during which, as he said later on, he passed into the shadow, and emerged only through the devotion of his wife and the help of the brothers Fagan, timber merchants, of Brisbane Water. Kendall was the Fagans' guest at Narrara Creek, near Gosford, and afterwards filled a clerical position in the business which one of the brothers established at Camden Haven. There he spent seven tranquil years with his wife and family, and wrote the best of his poems. In some of these he said all that need be said against himself, for he was always frankly critical of his conduct and work.

In his later years Kendall tasted some of the sweets of success. He wrote the words of the opening Cantata sung at the Sydney International Exhibition in 1879, and won a prize of one hundred pounds offered by 'The Sydney Morning Herald' for a poem on the Exhibition. His third collection—'Songs from the Mountains'—was published at Sydney in 1880, and realized a substantial profit. In 1881 Sir Henry Parkes made a position for him, an Inspectorship of State Forests at five hundred pounds a year. Kendall's experience in the timber business well fitted him for this, though his health was not equal to the exposure attendant on the work. He moved to Cundletown, on the Manning River, before receiving the appointment, and from that centre rode out on long tours of inspection. During one of these he caught a chill; his lungs were affected, and rapid consumption followed. He went to Sydney for treatment and was joined by his wife at Mr. Fagan's house in Redfern, where he died in her arms on the 1st August, 1882. He was buried at Waverley, overlooking the sea.

Kendall, it should be remembered, did not prepare a collected edition of his poems, and it will be noticed that in the present volume some lines and passages appear more than once. The student and lover of Kendall will be interested to see how these lines and passages were taken from his own previous work and turned to better account in later poems, and to note the gradual improvement of his style. In his last book, 'Songs from the Mountains', there are fewer echoes; the touch is surer, and the imaginative level at his highest. The shining wonder is that, under the conditions of Australian life between 1860 and 1880, he should have written so much that is so good.

As our first sweet singer of "native woodnotes wild", Kendall has an enduring place in the regard of all Australians; and his best work is known and admired wherever English poetry is read.

Bertram Stevens

{This is the transcription of the letter previously mentioned.}

Newtown, Sydney, New South Wales.

January 21, 1862

To the Editor of the "Cornhill Magazine".

Sir,

Will you oblige me by reading this letter, and the accompanying verses? Remember that they will have travelled sixteen thousand miles, and on that account will be surely worth a few moments of your time. I think that there is merit in the verses, and have sent them to you, hoping that you—yourself, will be of the same opinion. If one can be selected—one up to the standard of the 'Cornhill Magazine', insert it, and you will be helping me practically. I do not hint of pecuniary remuneration however, for your recognition would be sufficient reward.

Let me say a few words about myself: I was born in this colony; and am now in the nineteenth year of my age. My education has been neglected—hence you will very likely find that some of these effusions are immature. At present the most of my time is occupied at an attorney's office, but I do not earn enough there to cover expenses; considering that I have to support my mother and three sisters. I want to rise, and if my poems are anywhere near the mark you can assist me by noticing them.

They recognise me in this country as the "first Australian poet". If the men who load me with their fulsome, foolish praises, really believed {that I have talent (crossed out)} in my talents, and cared a whit about fostering a native literature, they would give me a good situation; and I should not have to appeal to you.

If one of the poems is found to be good enough, and you publish it, someone here will then surely do the rest. On the other hand if nothing can be gleaned from them, let the effusions and their author be forgotten. Hoping that you will not forget to read the verses, I remain

Yours, Respectfully,

H. Kendall.



POEMS AND SONGS



The Muse of Australia



Where the pines with the eagles are nestled in rifts, And the torrent leaps down to the surges, I have followed her, clambering over the clifts, By the chasms and moon-haunted verges. I know she is fair as the angels are fair, For have I not caught a faint glimpse of her there; A glimpse of her face and her glittering hair, And a hand with the Harp of Australia?

I never can reach you, to hear the sweet voice So full with the music of fountains! Oh! when will you meet with that soul of your choice, Who will lead you down here from the mountains? A lyre-bird lit on a shimmering space; It dazzled mine eyes and I turned from the place, And wept in the dark for a glorious face, And a hand with the Harp of Australia!



Mountains



Rifted mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare Where the noonday glory sails through gulfs of calm and glittering air; Stately mountains, high and hoary, piled with blocks of amber cloud, Where the fading twilight lingers, when the winds are wailing loud; Grand old mountains, overbeetling brawling brooks and deep ravines, Where the moonshine, pale and mournful, flows on rocks and evergreens.

Underneath these regal ridges—underneath the gnarly trees, I am sitting, lonely-hearted, listening to a lonely breeze! Sitting by an ancient casement, casting many a longing look Out across the hazy gloaming—out beyond the brawling brook! Over pathways leading skyward—over crag and swelling cone, Past long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone; Yearning for a bliss unworldly, yearning for a brighter change, Yearning for the mystic Aidenn, built beyond this mountain range.

Happy years, amongst these valleys, happy years have come and gone, And my youthful hopes and friendships withered with them one by one; Days and moments bearing onward many a bright and beauteous dream, All have passed me like to sunstreaks flying down a distant stream. Oh, the love returned by loved ones! Oh, the faces that I knew! Oh, the wrecks of fond affection! Oh, the hearts so warm and true! But their voices I remember, and a something lingers still, Like a dying echo roaming sadly round a far off hill.

I would sojourn here contented, tranquil as I was of yore, And would never wish to clamber, seeking for an unknown shore; I have dwelt within this cottage twenty summers, and mine eyes Never wandered erewhile round in search of undiscovered skies; But a spirit sits beside me, veiled in robes of dazzling white, And a dear one's whisper wakens with the symphonies of night; And a low sad music cometh, borne along on windy wings, Like a strain familiar rising from a maze of slumbering springs.

And the Spirit, by my window, speaketh to my restless soul, Telling of the clime she came from, where the silent moments roll; Telling of the bourne mysterious, where the sunny summers flee Cliffs and coasts, by man untrodden, ridging round a shipless sea. There the years of yore are blooming—there departed life-dreams dwell, There the faces beam with gladness that I loved in youth so well; There the songs of childhood travel, over wave-worn steep and strand— Over dale and upland stretching out behind this mountain land.

"Lovely Being, can a mortal, weary of this changeless scene, Cross these cloudy summits to the land where man hath never been? Can he find a pathway leading through that wildering mass of pines, So that he shall reach the country where ethereal glory shines; So that he may glance at waters never dark with coming ships; Hearing round him gentle language floating from angelic lips; Casting off his earthly fetters, living there for evermore; All the blooms of Beauty near him, gleaming on that quiet shore?

"Ere you quit this ancient casement, tell me, is it well to yearn For the evanescent visions, vanished never to return? Is it well that I should with to leave this dreary world behind, Seeking for your fair Utopia, which perchance I may not find? Passing through a gloomy forest, scaling steeps like prison walls, Where the scanty sunshine wavers and the moonlight seldom falls? Oh, the feelings re-awakened! Oh, the hopes of loftier range! Is it well, thou friendly Being, well to wish for such a change?"

But the Spirit answers nothing! and the dazzling mantle fades; And a wailing whisper wanders out from dismal seaside shades! "Lo, the trees are moaning loudly, underneath their hood-like shrouds, And the arch above us darkens, scarred with ragged thunder clouds!" But the spirit answers nothing, and I linger all alone, Gazing through the moony vapours where the lovely Dream has flown; And my heart is beating sadly, and the music waxeth faint, Sailing up to holy Heaven, like the anthems of a Saint.



Kiama



Towards the hills of Jamberoo Some few fantastic shadows haste, Uplit with fires Like castle spires Outshining through a mirage waste. Behold, a mournful glory sits On feathered ferns and woven brakes, Where sobbing wild like restless child The gusty breeze of evening wakes! Methinks I hear on every breath A lofty tone go passing by, That whispers—"Weave, Though wood winds grieve, The fadeless blooms of Poesy!"

A spirit hand has been abroad— An evil hand to pluck the flowers— A world of wealth, And blooming health Has gone from fragrant seaside bowers. The twilight waxeth dim and dark, The sad waves mutter sounds of woe, But the evergreen retains its sheen, And happy hearts exist below; But pleasure sparkles on the sward, And voices utter words of bliss, And while my bride Sits by my side, Oh, where's the scene surpassing this?

Kiama slumbers, robed with mist, All glittering in the dewy light That, brooding o'er The shingly shore, Lies resting in the arms of Night; And foam-flecked crags with surges chill, And rocks embraced of cold-lipped spray, Are moaning loud where billows crowd In angry numbers up the bay. The holy stars come looking down On windy heights and swarthy strand, And Life and Love— The cliffs above— Are sitting fondly hand in hand.

I hear a music inwardly, That floods my soul with thoughts of joy; Within my heart Emotions start That Time may still but ne'er destroy. An ancient Spring revives itself, And days which made the past divine; And rich warm gleams from golden dreams, All glorious in their summer shine; And songs of half forgotten hours, And many a sweet melodious strain, Which still shall rise Beneath the skies When all things else have died again.

A white sail glimmers out at sea— A vessel walking in her sleep; Some Power goes past That bends the mast, While frighted waves to leeward leap. The moonshine veils the naked sand And ripples upward with the tide, As underground there rolls a sound From where the caverned waters glide. A face that bears affection's glow, The soul that speaks from gentle eyes, And joy which slips From loving lips Have made this spot my Paradise!



Etheline



The heart that once was rich with light, And happy in your grace, Now lieth cold beneath the scorn That gathers on your face; And every joy it knew before, And every templed dream, Is paler than the dying flash On yonder mountain stream. The soul, regretting foundered bliss Amid the wreck of years, Hath mourned it with intensity Too deep for human tears!

The forest fadeth underneath The blast that rushes by— The dripping leaves are white with death, But Love will never die! We both have seen the starry moss That clings where Ruin reigns, And one must know his lonely breast Affection still retains; Through all the sweetest hopes of life, That clustered round and round, Are lying now, like withered things, Forsaken—on the ground.

'Tis hard to think of what we were, And what we might have been, Had not an evil spirit crept Across the tranquil scene: Had fervent feelings in your soul Not failed nor ceased to shine As pure as those existing on, And burning still in mine. Had every treasure at your feet That I was wont to pour, Been never thrown like worthless weeds Upon a barren shore!

The bitter edge of grief has passed, I would not now upbraid; Or count to you the broken vows, So often idly made! I would not cross your path to chase The falsehood from your brow— I know, with all that borrowed light, You are not happy now: Since those that once have trampled down Affection's early claim, Have lost a peace they need not hope To find on earth again.



Aileen



A splendid sun betwixt the trees Long spikes of flame did shoot, When turning to the fragrant South, With longing eyes and burning mouth, I stretched a hand athwart the drouth, And plucked at cooling fruit.

So thirst was quenched, and hastening on With strength returned to me, I set my face against the noon, And reached a denser forest soon; Which dipped into a still lagoon Hard by the sooming sea.

All day the ocean beat on bar And bank of gleaming sand; Yet that lone pool was always mild, It never moved when waves were wild, But slumbered, like a quiet child, Upon the lap of land.

And when I rested on the brink, Amongst the fallen flowers, I lay in calm; no leaves were stirred By breath of wind, or wing of bird; It was so still, you might have heard The footfalls of the hours.

Faint slumbrous scents of roses filled The air which covered me: My words were low—"she loved them so, In Eden vales such odours blow: How strange it is that roses grow So near the shores of Sea!"

A sweeter fragrance never came Across the Fields of Yore! And when I said—"we here would dwell,"— A low voice on the silence fell— "Ah! if you loved the roses well, You loved Aileen the more."

"Ay, that I did, and now would turn, And fall and worship her! But Oh, you dwell so far—so high! One cannot reach, though he may try, The Morning land, and Jasper sky— The balmy hills of Myrrh.

"Why vex me with delicious hints Of fairest face, and rarest blooms; You Spirit of a darling Dream Which links itself with every theme And thought of mine by surf or stream, In glens—or caverned glooms?"

She said, "thy wishes led me down, From amaranthine bowers: And since my face was haunting thee With roses (dear which used to be), They all have hither followed me, The scents and shapes of flowers."

"Then stay, mine own evangel, stay! Or, going, take me too; But let me sojourn by your side, If here we dwell or there abide, It matters not!" I madly cried— "I only care for you."

Oh, glittering Form that would not stay!— Oh, sudden, sighing breeze! A fainting rainbow dropped below Far gleaming peaks and walls of snow And there, a weary way, I go, Towards the Sunrise seas.



Kooroora



The gums in the gully stand gloomy and stark, A torrent beneath them is leaping, And the wind goes about like a ghost in the dark Where a chief of Wahibbi lies sleeping! He dreams of a battle—of foes of the past, But he hears not the whooping abroad on the blast, Nor the fall of the feet that are travelling fast. Oh, why dost thou slumber, Kooroora?

They come o'er the hills in their terrible ire, And speed by the woodlands and water; They look down the hills at the flickering fire, All eager and thirsty for slaughter. Lo! the stormy moon glares like a torch from the vale, And a voice in the belah grows wild in its wail, As the cries of the Wanneroos swell with the gale— Oh! rouse thee and meet them, Kooroora!

He starts from his sleep and he clutches his spear, And the echoes roll backward in wonder, For a shouting strikes into the hollow woods near, Like the sound of a gathering thunder. He clambers the ridge, with his face to the light, The foes of Wahibbi come full in his sight— The waters of Mooki will redden to-night. Go! and glory awaits thee, Kooroora!

Lo! yeelamans splinter and boomerangs clash, And a spear through the darkness is driven— It whizzes along like a wandering flash From the heart of a hurricane riven. They turn to the mountains, that gloomy-browed band; The rain droppeth down with a moan to the land, And the face of a chieftain lies buried in sand— Oh, the light that was quenched with Kooroora!

To-morrow the Wanneroo dogs will rejoice, And feast in this desolate valley; But where are his brothers—the friends of his choice, And why art thou absent, Ewalli? Now silence draws back to the forest again, And the wind, like a wayfarer, sleeps on the plain, But the cheeks of a warrior bleach in the rain. Oh! where are thy mourners, Kooroora?



Fainting by the Way



Swarthy wastelands, wide and woodless, glittering miles and miles away, Where the south wind seldom wanders and the winters will not stay; Lurid wastelands, pent in silence, thick with hot and thirsty sighs, Where the scanty thorn-leaves twinkle with their haggard, hopeless eyes; Furnaced wastelands, hunched with hillocks, like to stony billows rolled, Where the naked flats lie swirling, like a sea of darkened gold; Burning wastelands, glancing upward with a weird and vacant stare, Where the languid heavens quiver o'er red depths of stirless air!

"Oh, my brother, I am weary of this wildering waste of sand; In the noontide we can never travel to the promised land! Lo! the desert broadens round us, glaring wildly in my face, With long leagues of sunflame on it,—oh! the barren, barren place! See, behind us gleams a green plot, shall we thither turn and rest Till a cold wind flutters over, till the day is down the west? I would follow, but I cannot! Brother, let me here remain, For the heart is dead within me, and I may not rise again."

"Wherefore stay to talk of fainting?—rouse thee for awhile, my friend; Evening hurries on our footsteps, and this journey soon will end. Wherefore stay to talk of fainting, when the sun, with sinking fire, Smites the blocks of broken thunder, blackening yonder craggy spire? Even now the far-off landscape broods and fills with coming change, And a withered moon grows brighter bending o'er that shadowed range; At the feet of grassy summits sleeps a water calm and clear— There is surely rest beyond it! Comrade, wherefore tarry here?

"Yet a little longer struggle; we have walked a wilder plain, And have met more troubles, trust me, than we e'er shall meet again! Can you think of all the dangers you and I are living through With a soul so weak and fearful, with the doubts I never knew? Dost thou not remember that the thorns are clustered with the rose, And that every Zin-like border may a pleasant land enclose? Oh, across these sultry deserts many a fruitful scene we'll find, And the blooms we gather shall be worth the wounds they leave behind!"

"Ah, my brother, it is useless! See, o'erburdened with their load, All the friends who went before us fall or falter by the road! We have come a weary distance, seeking what we may not get, And I think we are but children, chasing rainbows through the wet. Tell me not of vernal valleys! Is it well to hold a reed Out for drowning men to clutch at in the moments of their need? Go thy journey on without me; it is better I should stay, Since my life is like an evening, fading, swooning fast away!

"Where are all the springs you talked of? Have I not with pleading mouth Looked to Heaven through a silence stifled in the crimson drouth? Have I not, with lips unsated, watched to see the fountains burst, Where I searched the rocks for cisterns? And they only mocked my thirst! Oh, I dreamt of countries fertile, bright with lakes and flashing rills Leaping from their shady caverns, streaming round a thousand hills! Leave me, brother, all is fruitless, barren, measureless, and dry, And my God will never help me though I pray, and faint, and die!"

"Up! I tell thee this is idle! Oh, thou man of little faith! Doubting on the verge of Aidenn, turning now to covet death! By the fervent hopes within me, by the strength which nerves my soul, By the heart that yearns to help thee, we shall live and reach the goal! Rise and lean thy weight upon me. Life is fair, and God is just, And He yet will show us fountains, if we only look and trust! Oh, I know it, and He leads us to the glens of stream and shade, Where the low, sweet waters gurgle round the banks which cannot fade!"

Thus he spake, my friend and brother! and he took me by the hand, And I think we walked the desert till the night was on the land; Then we came to flowery hollows, where we heard a far-off stream Singing in the moony twilight, like the rivers of my dream. And the balmy winds came tripping softly through the pleasant trees, And I thought they bore a murmur like a voice from sleeping seas. So we travelled, so we reached it, and I never more will part With the peace, as calm as sunset, folded round my weary heart.



Song of the Cattle-Hunters



While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams, And the water-pools flash in its glow, Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry— Down the ridges and gullies we go! And the cattle we hunt—they are racing in front, With a roar like the thunder of waves, As the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet Start the echoes away from their caves! As the beat and the beat Of our swift horses' feet Start the echoes away from their caves!

Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er, All the lowlands are filling with sound; For swiftly we gain where the herds on the plain, Like a tempest, are tearing the ground! And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard, O'er the gulches and mountain-tops grey, Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet Will die with the echoes away! Where the beat and the beat Of our swift horses' feet Will die with the echoes away!



Footfalls



The embers were blinking and clinking away, The casement half open was thrown; There was nothing but cloud on the skirts of the Day, And I sat on the threshold alone!

And said to the river which flowed by my door With its beautiful face to the hill, "I have waited and waited, all wearied and sore, But my love is a wanderer still!"

And said to the wind, as it paused in its flight To look through the shivering pane, "There are memories moaning and homeless to-night That can never be tranquil again!"

And said to the woods, as their burdens were borne With a flutter and sigh to the eaves, "They are wrinkled and wasted, and tattered and torn, And we too have our withering leaves."

Did I hear a low echo of footfalls about, Whilst watching those forest trees stark? Or was it a dream that I hurried without To clutch at and grapple the dark?

In the shadow I stood for a moment and spake— "Bright thing that was loved in the past, Oh! am I asleep—or abroad and awake? And are you so near me at last?

"Oh, roamer from lands where the vanished years go, Oh, waif from those mystical zones, Come here where I long for you, broken and low, On the mosses and watery stones!

"Come out of your silence and tell me if Life Is so fair in that world as they say; Was it worth all this yearning, and weeping, and strife When you left it behind you to-day?

"Will it end all this watching, and doubting, and dread? Do these sorrows die out with our breath? Will they pass from our souls like a nightmare," I said, "While we glide through the mazes of Death?

"Come out of that darkness and teach me the lore You have learned since I looked on your face; By the summers that blossomed and faded of yore— By the lights which have fled to that place!

"You answer me not when I know that you could— When I know that you could and you should; Though the storms be abroad on the wave; Though the rain droppeth down with a wail to the wood, And my heart is as cold as your grave!"



God Help Our Men at Sea



The wild night comes like an owl to its lair, The black clouds follow fast, And the sun-gleams die, and the lightnings glare, And the ships go heaving past, past, past— The ships go heaving past! Bar the doors, and higher, higher Pile the faggots on the fire: Now abroad, by many a light, Empty seats there are to-night— Empty seats that none may fill, For the storm grows louder still: How it surges and swells through the gorges and dells, Under the ledges and over the lea, Where a watery sound goeth moaning around— God help our men at sea!

Oh! never a tempest blew on the shore But that some heart did moan For a darling voice it would hear no more And a face that had left it lone, lone, lone— A face that had left it lone! I am watching by a pane Darkened with the gusty rain, Watching, through a mist of tears, Sad with thoughts of other years, For a brother I did miss In a stormy time like this. Ah! the torrent howls past, like a fiend on the blast, Under the ledges and over the lea; And the pent waters gleam, and the wild surges scream— God help our men at sea!

Ah, Lord! they may grope through the dark to find Thy hand within the gale; And cries may rise on the wings of the wind From mariners weary and pale, pale, pale— From mariners weary and pale! 'Tis a fearful thing to know, While the storm-winds loudly blow, That a man can sometimes come Too near to his father's home; So that he shall kneel and say, "Lord, I would be far away!" Ho! the hurricanes roar round a dangerous shore, Under the ledges and over the lea; And there twinkles a light on the billows so white— God help our men at sea!



Sitting by the Fire



Barren Age and withered World! Oh! the dying leaves, Like a drizzling rain, Falling round the roof— Pattering on the pane! Frosty Age and cold, cold World! Ghosts of other days, Trooping past the faded fire, Flit before the gaze. Now the wind goes soughing wild O'er the whistling Earth; And we front a feeble flame, Sitting round the hearth! Sitting by the fire, Watching in its glow, Ghosts of other days Trooping to and fro.

. . . . .

Oh, the nights—the nights we've spent, Sitting by the fire, Cheerful in its glow; Twenty summers back— Twenty years ago! If the days were days of toil Wherefore should we mourn; There were shadows near the shine, Flowers with the thorn? And we still can recollect Evenings spent in mirth— Fragments of a broken life, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Cheerful in its glow, Twenty summers back— Twenty years ago.

Beauty stooped to bless us once, Sitting by the fire, Happy in its glow; Forty summers back— Forty years ago. Words of love were interchanged, Maiden hearts we stole; And the light affection throws Slept on every soul. Oh, the hours went flying past— Hours of priceless worth; But we took no note of Time, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Happy in its glow, Forty summers back— Forty years ago.

Gleesome children were we not? Sitting by the fire, Ruddy in its glow, Sixty summers back— Sixty years ago. Laughing voices filled the room; Oh, the songs we sung, When the evenings hurried by— When our hearts were young! Pleasant faces watched the flame— Eyes illumed with mirth— And we told some merry tales, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Ruddy in its glow, Sixty summers back— Sixty years ago.

. . . . .

Barren Age and withered World! Oh, the dying leaves, Like a drizzling rain, Falling round the roof— Pattering on the pane! Frosty Age and cold, cold World! Ghosts of other days, Trooping past the faded fire, Flit before the gaze. Now the wind goes soughing wild O'er the whistling Earth; And we front a feeble flame, Sitting round the hearth: Sitting by the fire, Watching, in its glow, Ghosts of other days Trooping to and fro!



Bellambi's Maid



Amongst the thunder-splintered caves On Ocean's long and windy shore, I catch the voice of dying waves Below the ridges old and hoar; The spray descends in silver showers, And lovely whispers come and go, Like echoes from the happy hours I never more may hope to know! The low mimosa droops with locks Of yellow hair, in dewy glade, While far above the caverned rocks I hear the dark Bellambi's Maid!

The moonlight dreams upon the sail That drives the restless ship to sea; The clouds troop past the mountain vale, And sink like spirits down the lee; The foggy peak of Corrimal, Uplifted, bears the pallid glow That streams from yonder airy hall And robes the sleeping hills below; The wandering meteors of the sky Beneath the distant waters wade, While mystic music hurries by— The songs of dark Bellambi's Maid!

Why comes your voice, you lonely One, Along the wild harp's wailing strings? Have not our hours of meeting gone, Like fading dreams on phantom wings? Are not the grasses round your grave Yet springing green and fresh to view? And does the gleam on Ocean's wave Tide gladness now to me and you? Oh! cold and cheerless falls the night On withered hearts and hopes decayed: And I have seen but little light Since died the dark Bellambi's Maid!



The Curlew Song



The viewless blast flies moaning past, Away to the forest trees, Where giant pines and leafless vines Bend 'neath the wandering breeze! From ferny streams, unearthly screams Are heard in the midnight blue; As afar they roam to the shepherd's home, The shrieks of the wild Curlew! As afar they roam To the shepherd's home, The shrieks of the wild Curlew!

The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world, And the shadows sleep around, Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon In her hazy glory crowned; While dingoes howl, and wake the growl Of the watchdog brave and true; Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark, With the song of the lone Curlew! Whose loud, rough bark Shoots up in the dark, With the song of the lone Curlew!

Near herby banks the dark green ranks Of the rushes stoop to drink; And the ripples chime, in a measured time, On the smooth and mossy brink; As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die, To start from the swamps anew, And join again o'er ridge and plain With the wails of the sad Curlew! And join again O'er ridge and plain With the wails of the sad Curlew!

The clouds are thrown around the cone Of the mountain bare and high, (Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek— To the face of the sombre sky) When down beneath the foggy wreath, Full many a gully through, They rend the air, like cries of despair, The screams of the wild Curlew! They rend the air, Like cries of despair, The screams of the wild Curlew!

The viewless blast flies moaning past, Away to the forest trees; Where giant pines and leafless vines Bend 'neath the wandering breeze! From ferny streams, unearthly screams Are heard in the midnight blue; As afar they roam to the shepherd's home, The shrieks of the wild Curlew! As afar they roam To the shepherd's home, The shrieks of the wild Curlew!



The Ballad of Tanna



She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief, Beneath a weird forest of Tanna; She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief, And cursed the dark race of Alkanna. With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain, The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain, And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain. Oh, the glory that died with Deloya!

"Wahina," they whispered, "Alkanna lies low, And the ghost of thy sire hath been gladdened, For the men of his people have fought with the foe Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!" She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill, Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill, "The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?" Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya!

"Wahina, why linger," Annatanam said, "When the tent of a chieftain is lonely? There are others who grieve for the light that has fled, And one who waits here for you only!" "Go—leave me!" she cried. "I would fain be alone; I must stay where the trees and the wild waters moan; For my heart is as cold as a wave-beaten stone." Oh, the Beauty that was broke for Deloya!

"Wahina, why weep o'er a handful of dust, When the souls of the brave are approaching? Oh, look to the fires that are lit for the just, And the mighty who sleep in Arrochin!" But she turned from the glare of the flame-smitten sea, And a cry, like a whirlwind, came over the lea— "Away to the mountains and leave her with me!" Oh, the heart that was broke for Deloya!



The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door



The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane; There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain. The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat! Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor; As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door: As, streaming down the lattices, The rain comes sobbing to the door.

Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go, Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro. But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears, Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years! And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more, While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door: While, streaming down the lattices, The rain comes sobbing to the door.

The tempest-trodden wastelands moan—the trees are threshing at the blast; And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past; And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays, Like some lone wandering voice from graves that hold the wrecks of bygone days. I tell ye that I love the storm, for think we not of thoughts of yore, When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door? When, streaming down the lattices, The rain comes sobbing to the door?

We'll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know, Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they've left below. Who knows—if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home— But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam? Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor, Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door! Though, streaming down the lattices, The rain comes sobbing to the door!



Urara

— * Another spelling of Orara, a tributary of the river Clarence. —



Euroka, go over the tops of the hill, For the Death-clouds have passed us to-day, And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still, And the tracks which are fading away! Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs, And say how our brothers were slain, We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief, And twenty more dead on the plain— On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain! But the low winds sigh, And the dead leaves fly, Where our warriors lie, In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass, And crawl to their coverts for fear; But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear! Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night When we think of the hunts of yore; And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought, With those who will battle no more— Who will go to the battle no more! For the dull winds sigh, And the dead leaves fly, Where our warriors lie, In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows, And they feast on the flesh of the brave; But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes For those whom they never can save! Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees, And hide in the dark of our hair; For we will not return where the camp-fires burn, And see what is smouldering there— What is smouldering, mouldering there! Where the sad winds sigh— The dead leaves fly, And our warriors lie; In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen On the banks of the gloomy Urara! Urara! Urara! On the banks of the gloomy Urara!



Evening Hymn



The crag-pent breezes sob and moan where hidden waters glide; And twilight wanders round the earth with slow and shadowy stride. The gleaming clouds, above the brows of western steeps uphurled, Look like the spires of some fair town that bounds a brighter world. Lo, from the depths of yonder wood, where many a blind creek strays, The pure Australian moon comes forth, enwreathed with silver haze. The rainy mists are trooping down the folding hills behind, And distant torrent-voices rise like bells upon the wind. The echeu's* songs are dying, with the flute-bird's mellow tone, And night recalls the gloomy owl to rove the wilds alone; Night, holy night, in robes of blue, with golden stars encrowned, Ascending mountains like to walls that hem an Eden round.

— * The rufous-breasted thickhead. —

Oh, lovely moon! oh, holy night! how good your God must be, When, through the glories of your light, He stoops to look at me! Oh, glittering clouds and silvery shapes, that vanish one by one! Is not the kindness of our Lord too great to think upon? If human song could flow as free as His created breeze, When, sloping from some hoary height, it sweeps the vacant seas, Then should my voice to heaven ascend, my tuneful lyre be strung, And music sweeter than the winds should roam these glens among. Go by, ye golden-footed hours, to your mysterious bourne, And hide the sins ye bear from hence, so that they ne'er return. Teach me, ye beauteous stars, to kiss kind Mercy's chastening rod, And, looking up from Nature's face, to worship Nature's God.



Stanzas



The sunsets fall and the sunsets fade, But still I walk this shadowy land; And grapple the dark and only the dark In my search for a loving hand.

For it's here a still, deep woodland lies, With spurs of pine and sheaves of fern; But I wander wild, and wail like a child For a face that will never return!

And it's here a mighty water flows, With drifts of wind and wimpled waves; But the darling head of a dear one dead Is hidden beneath its caves.



The Wail in the Native Oak



Where the lone creek, chafing nightly in the cold and sad moonshine, Beats beneath the twisted fern-roots and the drenched and dripping vine; Where the gum trees, ringed and ragged, from the mazy margins rise, Staring out against the heavens with their languid gaping eyes; There I listened—there I heard it! Oh, that melancholy sound, Wandering like a ghostly whisper, through the dreaming darkness round! Wandering, like a fearful warning, where the withered twilight broke Through a mass of mournful tresses, drooping down the Native Oak.

And I caught a glimpse of sunset fading from a far-off wild, As I sat me down to fancy, like a thoughtful, wistful child— Sat me down to fancy what might mean those hollow, hopeless tones, Sooming round the swooning silence, dying out in smothered moans! What might mean that muffled sobbing? Did a lonely phantom wail, Pent amongst those tangled branches barring out the moonlight pale? Wept it for that gleam of glory wasting from the forest aisles; For that fainting gleam of glory sad with flickering, sickly smiles?

In these woodlands I was restless! I had seen a light depart, And an ache for something vanished filled and chilled my longing heart, And I linked my thoughts together—"All seemed still and dull to-day, But a painful symbol groweth from the shine that pales away! This may not be idle dreaming; if the spirit roams," I said, "This is surely one, a wanderer from the ages which have fled! Who can look beyond the darkness; who can see so he may tell Where the sunsets all have gone to; where the souls that leave us dwell?

"This might be a loving exile, full with faded thoughts returned, Seeking for familiar faces, friends for whom he long had yearned. Here his fathers must have sojourned—here his people may have died, Or, perchance, to distant forests all were scattered far and wide. So he moans and so he lingers! weeping o'er the wasted wild; Weeping o'er the desolation, like a lost, benighted child! So he moans, and so he lingers! Hence these fitful, fretful sighs, Deep within the oak tree solemn! Hence these weary, weary cries!

"Or who knows but that some secret lies beneath yon dismal mound? Ha! a dreary, dreadful secret must be buried underground! Not a ragged blade of verdure—not one root of moss is there; Who hath torn the grasses from it—wherefore is that barrow bare? Darkness shuts the forest round me. Here I stand and, O my God! This may be some injured spirit raving round and round the sod. Hush! the tempest, how it travels! Blood hath here been surely shed— Hush! the thunder, how it mutters! Oh, the unrequited Dead!"

Came a footfall past the water—came a wild man through the gloom, Down he stooped and faced the current, silent as the silent tomb; Down he stooped and lapped the ripples: not a single word he spoke, But I whispered, "He can tell me of the Secret in the Oak? Very thoughtful seems that forehead; many legends he may know; Many tales and old traditions linked to what is here below! I must ask him—rest I cannot—though my life upon it hung— Though these wails are waxing louder, I must give my thoughts a tongue.

"Shake that silence from you, wild man! I have looked into your face, Hoping I should learn the story there about this fearful place. Slake your thirst, but stay and tell me: did your heart with terror beat, When you stepped across the bare and blasted hillock at your feet? Hearken to these croons so wretched deep within the dusk boughs pent! Hold you not some strange tradition coupled with this strange lament? When your tribe about their camp-fires hear that hollow, broken cry, Do they hint of deeds mysterious, hidden in the days gone by?"

But he rose like one bewildered, shook his head and glided past; Huddling whispers hurried after, hissing in the howling blast! Now a sheet of lurid splendour swept athwart the mountain spire, And a midnight squall came trumping down on zigzag paths of fire! Through the tumult dashed a torrent flanking out in foaming streams, Whilst the woodlands groaned and muttered like a monster vexed with dreams. Then I swooned away in horror. Oh! that shriek which rent the air, Like the voice of some fell demon harrowed by a mad despair.



Harps We Love



The harp we love hath a royal burst! Its strings are mighty forest trees; And branches, swaying to and fro, Are fingers sounding symphonies.

The harp we love hath a solemn sound! And rocks amongst the shallow seas Are strings from which the rolling waves Draw forth their stirring harmonies.

The harp we love hath a low sweet voice! Its strings are in the bosom deep, And Love will press those hidden chords When all the baser passions sleep.



Waiting and Wishing



I loiter by this surging sea, Here, by this surging, sooming sea, Here, by this wailing, wild-faced sea, Dreaming through the dreamy night; Yearning for a strange delight! Will it ever, ever, ever fly to me, By this surging sea, By this surging, sooming sea, By this wailing, wild-faced sea?

I know some gentle spirit lives, Some loving, lonely spirit lives, Some melancholy spirit lives, Walking o'er the earth for me, Searching round the world for me! Will she ever, ever, ever hither come? Where the waters roam, Where the sobbing waters roam! Where the raving waters roam!

All worn and wasted by the storms, All gapped and fractured by the storms, All split and splintered by the storms, Overhead the caverns groan, Gloomy, ghastly caverns groan!— Will she ever, ever, ever fill this heart? Peace, O longing heart! Peace, O longing, beating heart! Peace, O beating, weary heart!



The Wild Kangaroo



The rain-clouds have gone to the deep— The East like a furnace doth glow; And the day-spring is flooding the steep, And sheening the landscape below. Oh, ye who are gifted with souls That delight in the music of birds, Come forth where the scattered mist rolls, And listen to eloquent words! Oh, ye who are fond of the sport, And would travel yon wilderness through, Gather—each to his place—for a life-stirring chase, In the wake of the wild Kangaroo! Gather—each to his place— For a life-stirring chase In the wake of the wild Kangaroo!

Beyond the wide rents of the fog, The trees are illumined with gold; And the bark of the shepherd's brave dog Shoots away from the sheltering fold. Down the depths of yon rock-border'd glade, A torrent goes foaming along; And the blind-owls retire into shade, And the bell-bird beginneth its song. By the side of that yawning abyss, Where the vapours are hurrying to, We will merrily pass, looking down to the grass For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo! We will merrily pass, Looking down to the grass For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo.

Ho, brothers, away to the woods; Euroka hath clambered the hill; But the morning there seldom intrudes, Where the night-shadows slumber on still. We will roam o'er these forest-lands wild, And thread the dark masses of vines, Where the winds, like the voice of a child, Are singing aloft in the pines. We must keep down the glee of our hounds; We must steal through the glittering dew; And the breezes shall sleep as we cautiously creep To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo. And the breezes shall sleep, As we cautiously creep To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo.

When we pass through a stillness like death The swamp fowl and timorous quail, Like the leaves in a hurricane's breath, Will start from their nests in the vale; And the forester,* snuffing the air, Will bound from his covert so dark, While we follow along in the rear, As arrows speed on to their mark! Then the swift hounds shall bring him to bay, And we'll send forth a hearty halloo, As we gather them all to be in at the fall— At the death of the wild Kangaroo! As we gather them all To be in at the fall— At the death of the wild Kangaroo!

— * The Kangaroo. —



Clari



Too cold, O my brother, too cold for my wife Is the Beauty you showed me this morning: Nor yet have I found the sweet dream of my life, And good-bye to the sneering and scorning. Would you have me cast down in the dark of her frown, Like others who bend at her shrine; And would barter their souls for a statue-like face, And a heart that can never be mine? That can never be theirs nor mine.

Go after her, look at her, kneel at her feet, And mimic the lover romantic; I have hated deceit, and she misses the treat Of driving me hopelessly frantic! Now watch her, as deep in her carriage she lies, And love her, my friend, if you dare! She would wither your life with her beautiful eyes, And strangle your soul with her hair! With a mesh of her splendid hair.



Wollongong



Let me talk of years evanished, let me harp upon the time When we trod these sands together, in our boyhood's golden prime; Let me lift again the curtain, while I gaze upon the past, As the sailor glances homewards, watching from the topmost mast. Here we rested on the grasses, in the glorious summer hours, When the waters hurried seaward, fringed with ferns and forest flowers; When our youthful eyes, rejoicing, saw the sunlight round the spray In a rainbow-wreath of splendour, glittering underneath the day; Sunlight flashing past the billows, falling cliffs and crags among, Clothing hopeful friendship basking on the shores of Wollongong.

Echoes of departed voices, whispers from forgotten dreams, Come across my spirit, like the murmurs of melodious streams. Here we both have wandered nightly, when the moonshine cold and pale Shimmer'd on the cone of Keira, sloping down the sleeping vale; When the mournful waves came sobbing, sobbing on the furrowed shore, Like to lone hearts weeping over loved ones they shall see no more; While the silver ripples, stealing past the shells and slimy stones, Broke beneath the caverns, dying, one by one, in muffled moans; As the fragrant wood-winds roaming, with a fitful cadence sung 'Mid the ghostly branches belting round the shores of Wollongong.

Lovely faces flit before us, friendly forms around us stand; Gleams of well-remembered gladness trip along the yellow sand. Here the gold-green waters glistened underneath our dreaming gaze, As the lights of Heaven slanted down the pallid ether haze; Here the mossy rock-pool, like to one that stirs himself in sleep, Trembled every moment at the roaring of the restless deep; While the stately vessels swooping to the breezes fair and free, Passed away like sheeted spectres, fading down the distant sea; And our wakened fancies sparkled, and our soul-born thoughts we strung Into joyous lyrics, singing with the waves of Wollongong.

Low-breathed strains of sweetest music float about my raptured ears; Angel-eyes are glancing at me hopeful smiles and happy tears. Merry feet go scaling up the old and thunder-shattered steeps, And the billows clamber after, and the surge to ocean leaps, Scattered into fruitless showers, falling where the breakers roll, Baffled like the aspirations of a proud ambitious soul. Far off sounds of silvery laughter through the hollow caverns ring, While my heart leaps up to catch reviving pleasure on the wing; And the years come trooping backward, and we both again are young, Walking side by side upon the lovely shores of Wollongong.

Fleeting dreams and idle fancies! Lo, the gloomy after Age Creepeth, like an angry shadow, over life's eventful stage! Joy is but a mocking phantom, throwing out its glitter brief— Short-lived as the western sunbeam dying from the cedar leaf. Here we linger, lonely-hearted, musing over visions fled, While the sickly twilight withers from the arches overhead. Semblance of a bliss delusive are those dull, receding rays; Semblance of the faint reflection left to us of other days; Days of vernal hope and gladness, hours when the blossoms sprung Round the feet of blithesome ramblers by the shores of Wollongong.



Ella with the Shining Hair



Through many a fragrant cedar grove A darkened water moans; And there pale Memory stood with Love Amongst the moss-green stones.

The shimmering sunlight fell and kissed The grasstree's golden sheaves; But we were troubled with a mist Of music in the leaves.

One passed us, like a sudden gleam; Her face was deadly fair. "Oh, go," we said, "you homeless Dream Of Ella's shining hair!

"We halt, like one with tired wings, And we would fain forget That there are tempting, maddening things Too high to clutch at yet!

"Though seven Springs have filled the Wood With pleasant hints and signs, Since faltering feet went forth and stood With Death amongst the pines."

From point to point unwittingly We wish to clamber still, Till we have light enough to see The summits of the hill.

"O do not cry, my sister dear," Said beaming Hope to Love, "Though we have been so troubled here The Land is calm above;

"Beyond the regions of the storm We'll find the golden gates, Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits."

And Memory murmured: "She was one Of God's own darlings lent; And Angels wept that she had gone, And wondered why she went.

"I know they came, and talked to her, Through every garden breeze, About eternal Hills of Myrrh, And quiet Jasper Seas.

"For her the Earth contained no charms; All things were strange and wild; And I believe a Seraph's arms Caught up the sainted Child."

And Love looked round, and said: "Oh, you That sit by Beulah's streams, Shake on this thirsty life the dew Which brings immortal dreams!

"Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft With looks of pitying balm, And hints of heaven, in whispers soft, To make our troubles calm.

"My Ella with the shining hair, Behold, these many years, We've held up wearied hands in prayer; And groped about in tears."

But Hope sings on: "Beyond the storm We'll find the golden gates Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits."



The Barcoo

(The Squatters' Song)



From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, And loud with the lowing of cattle, We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle! Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses And sources of rivers that all of us know; For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges, And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges Of gullies where waters eternally flow. Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet; And I think that my life with delight will stand still When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet.

Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, Though the face of the forest-land changes. The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing? Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween! When we leave the dry channels away to the south, And reach the far plains we are journeying to, We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo!



Bells Beyond the Forest



Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees; Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze. Far away from dusky towns and cities twinkling with the feet of men; Listening to a sound of mellow music fleeting down the gusty glen; Sitting by a rapid torrent, with the broken sunset in my face; By a rapid, roaring torrent, tumbling through a dark and lonely place! And I hear the bells beyond the forest, and the voice of distant streams; And a flood of swelling singing, wafting round a world of ruined dreams.

Like to one who watches daylight dying from a lofty mountain spire, When the autumn splendour scatters like a gust of faintly-gleaming fire; So the silent spirit looketh through a mist of faded smiles and tears, While across it stealeth all the sad and sweet divinity of years— All the scenes of shine and shadow; light and darkness sleeping side by side When my heart was wedded to existence, as a bridegroom to his bride: While I travelled gaily onward with the vapours crowding in my wake, Deeming that the Present hid the glory where the promised Morn would break.

Like to one who, by the waters standing, marks the reeling ocean wave Moaning, hide his head all torn and shivered underneath his lonely cave, So the soul within me glances at the tides of Purpose where they creep, Dashed to fragments by the yawning ridges circling Life's tempestuous Deep! Oh! the tattered leaves are dropping, dropping round me like a fall of rain; While the dust of many a broken aspiration sweeps my troubled brain; With the yearnings after Beauty, and the longings to be good and great; And the thoughts of catching Fortune, flying on the tardy wings of Fate.

Bells, beyond the forest chiming, where is all the inspiration now That was wont to flush my forehead, and to chase the pallor from my brow? Did I not, amongst these thickets, weave my thoughts and passions into rhyme, Trusting that the words were golden, hoping for the praise of after-time? Where have all those fancies fled to? Can the fond delusion linger still, When the Evening withers o'er me, and the night is creeping up the hill? If the years of strength have left me, and my life begins to fail and fade, Who will learn my simple ballads; who will stay to sing the songs I've made?

Bells, beyond the forest ringing, lo, I hasten to the world again; For the sun has smote the empty windows, and the day is on the wane! Hear I not a dreamy echo, soughing through the rafters of the tree; Like a sound of stormy rivers, or the ravings of a restless sea? Should I loiter here to listen, while this fitful wind is on the wing? No, the heart of Time is sobbing, and my spirit is a withered thing! Let the rapid torrents tumble, let the woodlands whistle in the blast; Mighty minstrels sing behind me, but the promise of my youth is past.



Ulmarra



Alone—alone! With a heart like a stone, She maketh her moan At the feet of the trees, With her face on her knees, And her hair streaming over; Wildly, and wildly, and wildly; For she misses the tracks of her lover! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh, where are the tracks of her lover?

Go by—go by! They have told her a lie, Who said he was nigh, In the white-cedar glen— In the camps of his men: And she sitteth there weeping— Weeping, and weeping, and weeping, For the face of a warrior sleeping! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! where is her warrior sleeping?

A dream! a dream! That they saw a bright gleam Through the dusk boughs stream, Where wild bees dwell, And a tomahawk fell, In moons which have faded; Faded, and faded, and faded, From woods where a chieftain lies shaded! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! where doth her chieftain lie shaded?

Bewail! bewail! Who whispered a tale, That they heard on the gale, Through the dark and the cold, The voice of the bold; And a boomerang flying; Flying, and flying, and flying? Ah! her heart it is wasted with crying— Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! her heart it is wasted with crying!



The Maid of Gerringong



Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast, With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past, And, beneath the shaggy forelands, strange fantastic forms of surf Fly, like wild hounds, at the darkness, crouching over sea and earth; Swooping round the sunken caverns, with an aggravated roar; Falling where the waters tumble foaming on a screaming shore! In a night like this we parted. Eyes were wet though speech was low, And our thoughts were all in mourning for the dear, dead Long Ago! In a night like this we parted. Hearts were sad though they were young, And you left me very lonely, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

Said my darling, looking at me, through the radiance of her tears: "Many changes, O my loved One, we will meet in after years; Changes like to sudden sunbursts flashing down a rainy steep— Changes like to swift-winged shadows falling on a moony deep! And they are so cheerless sometimes, leaving, when they pass us by, Deepening dolours on the sweet, sad face of our Humanity. But you'll hope, and fail and faint not, with that heart so warm and true, Watching for the coming Morning, that will flood the World for you; Listening through a thirsty silence, till the low winds bear along Eager footfalls—pleasant voices," said the Maid of Gerringong.

Said my darling, when the wind came sobbing wildly round the eaves: "Oh, the Purpose scattered from me, like the withered autumn leaves! Oh, the wreck of Love's ambition! Oh, the fond and full belief That I yet should hear them hail you in your land a God-made chief! In the loud day they may slumber, but my thoughts will not be still When the weary world is sleeping, and the moon is on the hill; Then your form will bend above me, then your voice will rise and fall, Though I turn and hide in darkness, with my face against the wall, And my Soul must rise and listen while those homeless memories throng Moaning in the night for shelter," said the Maid of Gerringong.

Ay, she passed away and left me! Rising through the dusk of tears, Came a vision of that parting every day for many years! Every day, though she had told me not to court the strange sweet pain, Something whispered—something led me to our olden haunts again: And I used to wander nightly, by the surges and the ships, Harping on those last fond accents that had trembled from her lips: Till a vessel crossed the waters, and I heard a stranger say, "One you loved has died in silence with her dear face turned away." Oh! the eyes that flash upon me, and the voice that comes along— Oh! my light, my life, my darling dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

. . . . .

Some one saith, "Oh, you that mock at Passion with a worldly whine, Would you change the face of Nature—would you limit God's design? Hide for shame from well-raised clamour, moderate fools who would be wise; Hide for shame—the World will hoot you! Love is Love, and never dies" And another asketh, doubting that my brother speaks the truth, "Can we love in age as fondly as we did in days of youth? Will dead faces always haunt us, in the time of faltering breath? Shall we yearn, and we so feeble?" Ay, for Love is Love in Death. Oh! the Faith with sure foundation!—let the Ages roll along, You are mine, and mine for ever, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

Last night, dear, I dreamt about you, and I thought that far from men We were walking, both together, in a fragrant seaside glen; Down where we could hear the surges wailing round the castled cliffs, Down where we could see the sunset reddening on the distant skiffs; There a fall of mountain waters tumbled through the knotted bowers Bright with rainbow colours reeling on the purple forest flowers. And we rested on the benches of a cavern old and hoar; And I whispered, "this is surely her I loved in days of yore! False he was who brought sad tidings! Why were you away so long, When you knew who waited for you, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong?

"Did the strangers come around you, in the far-off foreign land? Did they lead you out of sorrow, with kind face and loving hand? Had they pleasant ways to court you—had they silver words to bind? Had they souls more fond and loyal than the soul you left behind? Do not think I blame you, dear one! Ah! my heart is gushing o'er With the sudden joy and wonder, thus to see your face once more. Happy is the chance which joins us after long, long years of pain: And, oh, blessed was whatever sent you back to me again! Now our pleasure will be real—now our hopes again are young: Now we'll climb Life's brightest summits, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.

"In the sound of many footfalls, did you falter with regret For a step which used to gladden in the time so vivid yet? When they left you in the night-hours, did you lie awake like me, With the thoughts of what we had been—what we never more could be? Ah! you look but do not answer while I halt and question here, Wondering why I am so happy, doubting that you are so near. Sure these eyes with love are blinded, for your form is waxing faint; And a dreamy splendour crowns it, like the halo round a saint! When I talk of what we will be, and new aspirations throng, Why are you so sadly silent, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong?"

But she faded into sunset, and the sunset passed from sight; And I followed madly after, through the misty, moony night, Crying, "do not leave me lonely! Life has been so cold and drear, You are all that God has left me, and I want you to be near! Do not leave me in the darkness! I have walked a weary way, Listening for your truant footsteps—turn and stay, my darling, stay!" But she came not though I waited, watching through a splendid haze, Where the lovely Phantom halted ere she vanished from my gaze. Then I thought that rain was falling, for there rose a stormy song, And I woke in gloom and tempest, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong!



Watching



Like a beautiful face looking ever at me A pure bright moon cometh over the sea; And I stand on the crags, and hear the falls Go tumbling down, through the black river-walls; And the heart of the gorge is rent with the cry Of the pent-up winds in their agony! You are far from me, dear, where I watch and wait, Like a weary bird for a long-lost mate, And my life is as dull as the sluggish stream Feeling its way through a world of dream; For here is a waste of darkness and fear, And I call and I call, but no one will hear! O darling of mine, do you ever yearn For a something lost, which will never return?

O darling of mine, on the grave of dead Hours, Do you feel, like me, for a handful of flowers? Through the glens of the Past, do you wander along, Like a restless ghost that hath done a wrong? And, lying alone, do you look from the drouth Of a thirsty Life with a pleading mouth? When the rain's on the roof, and the gales are abroad, Do you wash with your tears the feet of your God? Oh! I know you do, and he sitteth alone, Your wounded Love, while you mourn and moan— Oh! I know you do, and he never will leap From his silence with smiles, while you weep—and weep!

Your coolness shake down, ye gathered green leaves, For my spirit is faint with the love that it grieves! Is there aught on the summit, O yearner through Night, Aught on the summit which looks like the light; When my soul is a-wearied and lone in the land, Groping around will it touch a kind hand? There are chasms between us as black as a pall, But bring us together, O God over all! And let me cast from me these fetters of Fear, When I hear the glad singing of Faith so near; For I know by the cheeks, which are pallid and wet, And a listening life we shall mingle yet! Oh! then I will turn to those eloquent eyes, And clasp thee close, with a sweet surprise; And a guest will go in by the heart's holy door, And the chambers of Love shall be left no more.



The Opossum-Hunters



Hear ye not the waters beating where the rapid rivers, meeting With the winds above them fleeting, hurry to the distant seas, And a smothered sound of singing from old Ocean upwards springing, Sending hollow echoes ringing like a wailing on the breeze? For the tempest round us brewing, cometh with the clouds pursuing, And the bright Day, like a ruin, crumbles from the mournful trees.

When the thunder ceases pealing, and the stars up heaven are stealing, And the Moon above us wheeling throws her pleasant glances round, From our homes we boldly sally 'neath the trysting tree to rally, For a night-hunt up the valley, with our brothers and the hound! Through a wild-eyed Forest, staring at the light above it glaring, We will travel, little caring for the dangers where we bound.

Twisted boughs shall tremble o'er us, hollow woods shall moan before us, And the torrents like a chorus down the gorges dark shall sing; And the vines shall shake and shiver, and the startled grasses quiver, Like the reeds beside a river in the gusty days of Spring; While we forward haste delighted, through a region seldom lighted— Souls impatient, hearts excited—like a wind upon the wing!

Oh! the solemn tones of Ocean, like the language of devotion, Or a voice of deep emotion, wander round the evening scene. Oh! the ragged shadows cluster where, my brothers, we must muster Ere the warm moon lends her lustre to the cedars darkly green; And the lights like flowers shall blossom, in high Heaven's kindly bosom, While we hunt the wild opossum, underneath its leafy screen;

Underneath the woven bowers, where the gloomy night-hawk cowers, Through a lapse of dreamy hours, in a stirless solitude! And the hound—that close beside us still will stay whate'er betide us— Through a 'wildering waste shall guide us— through a maze where few intrude, Till the game is chased to cover, till the stirring sport is over, Till we bound, each happy rover, homeward down the laughing wood.

Oh, the joy in wandering thither, when fond friends are all together And our souls are like the weather—cloudless, clear and fresh and free! Let the sailor sing the story of the ancient ocean's glory, Forests golden, mountains hoary—can he look and love like we? Sordid worldling, haunt thy city with that heart so hard and gritty! There are those who turn with pity when they turn to think of thee!



In the Depths of a Forest



In the depths of a Forest secluded and wild, The night voices whisper in passionate numbers; And I'm leaning again, as I did when a child, O'er the grave where my father so quietly slumbers.

The years have rolled by with a thundering sound But I knew, O ye woodlands, affection would know it, And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it.

Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan Go fitfully over the branches so dreary; And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone, And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.



To Charles Harpur



I would sit at your feet for long days, To hear the sweet Muse of the Wild Speak out through the sad and the passionate lays Of her first and her favourite Child.

I would sit at your feet, for my soul Delights in the solitudes free; And I stand where the creeks and the cataracts roll Whensoever I listen to thee!

I would sit at your feet, for I love By the gulches and torrents to roam; And I long in this city for woodland and grove, And the peace of a wild forest home.

I would sit at your feet, and we'd dwell On the scenes of a long-vanished time, While your thoughts into music would surge and would swell Like a breeze of our beautiful clime.

I would sit at your feet, for I know, Though the World in the Present be blind, That the amaranth blossoms of Promise will blow When the Ages have left you behind.

I would sit at your feet, for I feel I am one of a glorious band That ever will own you and hold you their Chief, And a Monarch of Song in the land!



The River and the Hill



And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep, On the brink of that beautiful stream, But it wandered along with a wearisome song Like a lover that walks in a dream: So the roses blew When the winds went through, In the moonlight so white and so still; But the river it beat All night at the feet Of a cold and flinty hill— Of a hard and senseless hill!